I can protect you.
Madge stood at the back of the crowd, her fingers white around a wicker basket's handle, and watches the whip crack down across Gale's back. It arches high, lands with a sound like breaking bones; Gale tenses, but doesn't cry out.
Stop, she could say, staring the peacekeeper down decisively. My father has issued a pardon for this man- because, it occurs to her, he is a man, with those powerful muscles and long-fingered, knot-tying hands- and you will not touch him.
Instead, Gale's back bleeds, long scars blossoming across the perfection of his skin. She can't look away.
To make up for it, she sneaks the syringe from her mother's dressing room table. Her mother's migranes will intensify, and Madge anticipates a sleepless night holding her hand, singing to her, being called Maysilee, a day where she can't practice the piano or so much as Capitol-mutted breathe because every little noise is like a flamingo beak piercing the woman's temples.
In her dreams, Gale's wounds have stopped oozing blood and started healing, scabs crusting at their edges.
Does it hurt? Her fingertips skim over the layers of half-formed skin.
He looks up at her, eyes unreadable, and attempts a smile. You did this.
And they're back in the square, only this time she's holding the whip, bringing it down with forceful vehemence. Gale shudders when she stops. Madge, he whispers. Pleading. For her to stop, or for her to continue? She's not sure which, but she lifts her hand again. The rope's tip bites into him.
Madge wakes up with a pillow jammed between her legs, biting her lip hard enough to break the skin. She lies in bed for a long time, watching a fly crawl over the ceiling. In retrospect, these strange fantasies almost make sense. Whenever they talk, Gale always seems to have the upper hand. He can catch her off guard with the most casual of comments, rob her of speech with a smirk. The idea of having power over him causes unfamiliar emotions to stir inside of her.
If she could whip him…